The Third Kind of Rain

I always said there was two different kinds of rains. Well, really three. Cleansing rain, crying rain and you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-I’ve-been-planning-this-picnic-for-months rain.
Today, as I pulled back my curtains, I knew it was the third kind. I hadn’t actually been planning a picnic, but something about the way the rain tapped on my window sounded despairing.
I pulled on my school sweatshirt, depicting the Jordan High Jaguar in white, against the navy blue. It was a standard among any member of my schools population. I selected a pair of jeans with little thought.
Glancing in my large mirror, I heaved a dissapointed sigh, as many teenage girls do when they see their body.
“KC, you’ll be late for school if you don’t hurry!” my mother called from downstairs. Dutifully honoring thier heritage, my parents had named me Katrazina. I prefered my nickname.
At least I was wearing my lucky jeans, however worn down they were. Not even Josh, who had desperatly liked me since sixth grade, could compliment these.

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